I stopped before the pedestal from which the cross rose. On one side of it, on the side nearest to me, the newly-cut inscription met my eyes -- the hard, clear, cruel black letters which told the story of her life and death. I tried to read them. I did read as far as the name. ‘Sacred to the Memory of Laura --' The kind blue eyes dim with tears -- the fair head drooping wearily -- the innocent parting words which implored me to leave her -- oh, for a happier last memory of her than this; the memory I took away with me, the memory I bring back with me to her grave!
A second time I tried to read the inscription. I saw at the end the date of her death, and above it --
Above it there were lines on the marble -- there was a name among them which disturbed my thoughts of her. I went round to the other side of the grave, where there was nothing to read, nothing of earthly vileness to force its way between her spirit and mine.
I knelt down by the tomb. I laid my hands, I laid my head on the broad white stone, and closed my weary eyes on the earth around, on the light above. I let her come back to me. Oh, my love! my love! my heart may speak to you now! It is yesterday again since we parted -- yesterday, since your dear hand lay in mine -- yesterday, since my eyes looked their last on you. My love! my love!
Time had flowed on, and silence had fallen like thick night over its course.
The first sound that came after the heavenly peace rustled faintly like a passing breath of air over the grass of the burial-ground. I heard it nearing me slowly, until it came changed to my car -- came like footsteps mowing onward -- then stopped.
I looked up.
The sunset was near at hand. The clouds had parted -- the slanting light fell mellow over the hills. The last of the day was cold and clear and still in the quiet valley of the dead.
Beyond me, in the burial-ground, standing together in the cold clearness of the lower light, I saw two women. They were looking towards the tomb, looking towards me.
Two.
They came a little on, and stopped again. Their veils were down, and hid their faces from me. When they stopped one of them raised her veil.
In the still evening light I saw the face of Marian Halcombe.
Changed, changed as if years had passed over it! The eyes large and wild, and looking at me with a strange terror in them. The face worn and wasted piteously. Pain and fear and grief written on her as with a brand.
I took one step towards her from the grave. She never moved -- she never spoke. The veiled woman with her cried out faintly. I stopped. The springs of my life fell low, and the shuddering of an unutterable dread crept over me from head to foot.
The woman with the veiled face moved away from her companion, and came towards me slowly. Left by herself, standing by herself, Marian Halcombe spoke. It was the voice that I remembered -- the voice not changed, like the frightened eyes and the wasted face.
‘My dream! my dream!' I heard her say those words softly in the awful silence. She sank on her knees, and raised her clasped hands to heaven.
‘Father! strengthen him. Father! help him in his hour of need.'
The woman came on, slowly and silently came on. I looked at her -- at her, and at none other, from that moment.
The voice that was praying for me faltered and sank low -- then rose on a sudden, and called affrightedly, called despairingly to me to come away.
But the veiled woman had possession of me, body and soul. She stopped on one side of the grave. We stood face to face with the tombstone between us. She was close to the inscription on the side of the pedestal. Her gown touched the black letters.
The voice came nearer, and rose and rose more passionately still. ‘Hide your face I don't look at her! Oh, for God's sake, spare him --'
The woman lifted her veil.
‘Sacred to the Memory of Laura, Lady Glyde --'
Laura, Lady Glyde, was standing by the inscription, and was looking at me over the grave.
